In the Balance
by LeonaHightower
Summary: Who was Ned and Lyanna Stark's mother? What passed between Elia and Rhaegar in the days and months following the Tourney of Harrenhal? What would it take to prevent Robert's Rebellion? AU developing from the Tourney of Harrenhal, when all the trouble started.
1. Lyanna

Lyanna 1 – corrected for

The Gods Eye lake was lapping at the coarse sand of the shore with short little waves. The water was calm and grey under the same dim sky that had conferred an austere, solemn air on the events of this past afternoon. She had entered the lists incognito, to redress an insult that was done by three stupid squires to a lad she met yesterday – incidentally, right in the middle of his being insulted. Lyanna splashed some cold lake water on her flushed face and sat down to try and make some sense of what had just happened, well screened by a growth of bushy willows up the sloping shore, the events of the past two days pressing thick on her memory.

Yesterday at this time of day she was scouting the near vicinity of the tourney grounds where they had just arrived that morning, while her brothers were still busy putting up their silk tent and overseeing the unloading of their party's luggage (Ned was keeping an eye on the glass-topped wooden boxes with the plants). Lyanna took the opportunity to sneak away, just for half an hour she thought, before they would need her help with the clothes. Their best clothes needed unpacking, airing, sorting, checking if anything needed to be cleaned or mended. The festive garments hadn't been worn for over a year now, as her lord father wasn't in any hurry to celebrate anything even after the eleven moons of mourning had been over. The tourney at Harrenhal, though, was called at short notice with the arrival of spring, and they had no time to sort out their clothes at home.

No sooner had she left behind the last row of the newly raised tents than she spied a group of three young lads at a distance, viciously kicking something on the ground. Lyanna hurried there, still holding a tourney sword in her hand, which she had grabbed as they were unpacking and forgotten to put down. What they were doing didn't look good, and as she approached she realized it was someone and not something that they were kicking. By a forked frog spear thrown on the ground a few feet away and by the victim's swamp-green dress, already much bloodied, she recognized him to be a crannogman.

- That's my father's man you're kicking! – she yelled, charging at them with her tourney sword as soon as they looked up at her. She took them completely by surprise, so they scattered at once, trying, too late, to hide their faces with their sleeves. She was gifted with a lightning-flash, instant memory for faces. The face of the young man on the ground was not familiar to her, though. His nose was bleeding, maybe broken, and there was a gash in his left cheek. She promptly knelt beside him, asking if he was much hurt and whether he could sit up.

About an hour later the crannogman Howland Reed was reclining on a camp berth in their large tent, dressed in a clean set of Ben's clothes, which fit him a little loosely. His wounds were washed out and treated with the purest sunflower oil simmered pink with tutsan, an unsurpassed remedy for superficial wounds and burns, according to Old Nan. Howland was Lord Reed's eldest son and had spent all of last winter on the Isle of Faces here in the Gods Eye Lake, learning their lore from the last children of the forest, who still survived there, although they were never seen anywhere else. He didn't tell this right away, while Brandon was talking to him. Lyanna cringed with embarrassment, remembering how clearly his polished, confident manner was out of place with the little crannogman, making him shrink into himself, as if he felt even more beaten than before. Brandon suggested they could arm him for the tourney tomorrow, so he would have ample chance to right his wrongs. Reed was visibly disconcerted and started muttering something about the isolated way they lived at Greywater Keep, never attending any tourneys and not even keeping any jousting spears in their armory. Only after Ned entered and sat down close to him, while Brandon excused himself and hurried out, did young Reed begin to show some signs of reviving. Lyanna was even able to persuade him to come to the feast Lord Whent was holding that night – with the extra profit of having Ben rummage through his trunk himself, hissing curses and shaking out wool-eating moths, till he found for Howland a nice dull-green tunic decorated with silver thread and a pair of decently fitting hosen, which only needed a bit of folding and stitching at the ankles.

Later on, after dark, Lyanna slipped out to spy around, and eventually spotted the faces of all three of Howland Reed's abusers. It was easy to browse through firelit, unsuspecting faces around bright campfires, as she hovered unnoticed in the dark. They turned out to be squires of a Frey, a Haigh and a Blount.

Her reverie was broken by a rustle in the willow bushes up the bank. She quickly looked around to see if any pieces of the armor were in sight. They were borrowed by Ned piecemeal from their camp neighbors on the pretext of having broken this piece and lost that, the night before. Nothing was visible, she had been careful enough to hide it all in a little hole in the sand under a sprawling bush, which she marked with a bit of white ribbon torn off her handkerchief, tied discreetly to one of the lowest branches. She and Ned should have no trouble finding the place when the moon rose and then returning the spare gauntlets, dinted plate and nondescript helmet to their owners. Someone was noisily approaching, crashing through the growth down the lake's sloping bank.

- Who is there? – she shouted.

- My lady, please excuse my intrusion. I wanted to make sure you were well. - The voice belonged to a person so unlikely to have appeared here that Lyanna was at a loss to identify it for a few moments.

It was the same voice that sang "Summerhall Sunsets" last night, the song that made her cry. It had a note of some rare, mellow, warm metal in it, not known to smiths, more enticing even than the pure silver cords of the harp that Prince Rhaegar played so well.

She had a few moments to get over her astonishment before he appeared in the clearing.

- Your Grace, there is no cause to be alarmed for me. I only wanted to enjoy the calm of the waters, - she gestured awkwardly at the majestic grey expanse of Gods Eye. His arrival, dreamlike and unexpected as it was, didn't bode well. She was wondering how she could make her hiding out here appear natural enough, in her sweat-soaked padded doublet and breeches smelling of horse, dishevelled and still flushed from the jousting in spite of the cold water she had splashed in her face. Why on earth would the prince, of all people, go out to search for her, and more disturbingly still, how did he know where to look?

- Oh, then I will not disturb you for long, lady Lyanna. My royal father sent me out with a discreet search party to look for the mystery knight, who disappeared so suddenly after his victory. His Grace would like to reward the man from his own bounty, once he discloses himself.

- His Grace is very insistent, - Lyanna blurted out.

- Yes, I would say that's just the word, my lady… Have you perchance glimpsed anyone resembling our winner in armor and stature, hurrying out of sight, as you made your way here? You must have left the tourney grounds about the same time as he, seeing as I left soon after and found you already here?

- No, Your Grace, I haven't seen anyone who might be him. I am sorry I can't be of use to you in this – I left the audience earlier, right after the mystery knight's victory was evident. I was a little indisposed. Perhaps a slight fever.– She gestured at her face and hair. - I thought the calm and cool of the lakeside might do me good.

- Then I will no longer disturb your rest, my lady. If you chance to see the owner of this, tell him the king is eager to see his face and give him proper reward, whoever he may be. – As he spoke, Prince Rhaegar slipped down the shield that hung behind his shoulder, out of her sight, and showed it to Lyanna.

Seven hells! She had hung her shield on the broken bough of a young ash-tree as she entered the lakeside growth, just to remove her helmet, which suddenly started feeling very tight and oppressive about her head. Turns out she never took the damned shield off that bough. The laughing weirwood she painted on it last night was now laughing at her.

Prince Rhaegar bowed to her and retired, crashing through the tangle of branches. Well, it's not he who is the clumsy, awkward bumbling fool around here.

There was nothing left for her to do except staying at the lakeshore for as long as it took, for things to calm down in the camp – whatever it might be that ensued from Rhaegar's visit. No one else came to trouble her. She moved a few hundred yards east along the shore, further away from the camp, where the growth was taller and one could find a really snug and hopefully well-hidden cove under the low-growing branches of a redwood. After a while she fell asleep on the sand, having pulled her grey woolen cape over her head.

She woke at deep dusk, and hurried back to the Starks' main tent. On her way she stopped to listen by a campfire of the Darry men: one of them, sitting on a flat slab of wood and burnishing a helmet placed on the ground between his knees, was saying:

- So King Aerys is pissed off that this Knight of the Laughing Tree has escaped like that. No friend of the king, he says. Only the shield was found. I say, good for him he made off clean. The king is as quick to flare up of late as spilled lamp oil.

Ned leaped off his camp bed as soon as he heard the rustle of the tent flap, although she was intent on entering quietly. He rushed to embrace her, then took her by the shoulders and beamed at her face.

- This was good jousting, sister! "I require no other reward, only that you teach your squires honor!" – it was funny how he tried to reproduce her shout in a half-whisper. – You should have heard your booming voice! We need to note the way that helmet's visor is made, before we give it back – I would love to sound like that too, when I speak to my enemies from inside my own helmet!

- Ned, I have been found out.

- What do you mean, Lya? The Knight of the Laughing Tree has vanished into thin air, except for his shield, which Prince Rhaegar found by the lake. Great move, that was, too. The talk is that the mystery knight might have been a wizard from the Isle of Faces, who could breathe water and just walked back home under the lake.

- Prince Rhaegar found me, as well as the shield. He seemed to have known I went down to the shore to hide, and cut through the brambles right to where I was. Hell, my brains must have leaked out with the sweat, I swear! How could I hide everything else and just leave that bloody shield behind!

- Lya, please, calm down first. Do you want more people to hear you? – he gestured towards the tent walls. – The prince clearly made no connection, we would have known by now if he did.

- Damn it, he said nothing, but I'm sure he added two and two together! Must have figured out my sweaty doublet and red face had to do with that shield I left hanging on the goddamn ash-tree! It's just twenty yards above where I thought I was hiding.

- He said nothing, that's right. That may be all that matters.

She considered it a moment, than grinned and hugged him, patting him on the back.

- You know, brother, you may be right after all. I'll wait for a better reason before I get really worried about this.

- Vayon, will it please you get us some ale for us? And something to eat for Lyanna? – Ned called outside the tent. – You must be starving. I hope the mutton stew is still hot enough from the embers.

The mutton stew with barley and mushrooms was just the thing, even if it was less than hot – everyone else had had their supper way before she came back. Once she finished eating, they stole back to the shore under the light of the waxing moon and brought back her borrowed armor. They could return it piece by piece before the end of the tourney. After that Ned started preparing for the night, with the other two brothers and Howland Reed, whom they invited to stay with them in the main tent for the entire tourney; they were all tired after this long day. But Lyanna was still wakeful, so she asked Brandon's permission to go to the fair grounds for a while.

Even at this late hour, the open glade at the center of the tent camp teemed with folk, rang with music, puppet shows and mummery, and dozens of stalls offered beer and mulled wine, honey cookies and every kind of pies, sausages of uncertain composition, wrinkled late winter apples and other fare for the festive crowd. Armor and trinket traders and sellers of camp necessities such as firewood, lamp oil or sleeping mats had mostly finished for today, though.

She came up to a stall selling mulled wine, under a tall birch whose trunk and expanding lower branches were decorated with little lights. Having ordered a cup, she saw next to her a cloaked and hooded man, who ordered:

- And one for me too, - in the same familiar voice she heard earlier today.

She looked up at him quickly, his face well shaded by the low-drawn hood of a dark cape, and resisted the impulse to greet him by his title and name.

The stall owner had placed three or four trestle tables behind his stall, deeper into the shade, further away from the crowded central glade. Probably to prevent his glazed earthenware cups from wandering off in all directions, Lyanna thought. Without saying a word, they both headed that way. For chairs, there were a few round firewood billets. Lyanna brought two delightful puffy fried flatbreads for them before settling down across the table from the prince.

- My royal father was passing pleased with your House's gift of winter plants, lady Lyanna – Rhaegar began tentatively. – I, for myself, particularly liked the roses. Such noble colors: pale blue, snow white, icy pink.

- I am very glad to hear this, Your Grace.

- If they could grow all the way up north in the winter, surely they will thrive in King's Landing.

- Have you been given instructions for your gardener on their care?

- Yes, your brother Ser Brandon enclosed a rather ponderous parchment from your maester. Are there any spells in there, or recipes of magic potions to make the plants grow in the middle of the winter? – she was uncertain if he was joking or not. Still she chuckled.

- No, Prince Rhaegar, I suppose the greater part of the parchment is about making the lamps and drawing swamp spirits to light them.

- Swamp spirits?

- It is all my lady mother's invention. When my parents traveled north from Oldtown after their wedding, she was astonished at the wandering lights they saw in the swamps of the Neck. They shone brighter than any candle, or oil lamp, or wood fire. Within half a year she returned to the swamps. She and her party stayed in some roadside inn and went out to the swamps every day, until she devised a way to capture the airlike swamp spirits where they rise from the deep of the bog. In the end she contrived to bring them home squeezed into ox-hide bags, sealed with pitch all over. Now don't ask me about the lamps, it's complicated as hell, we had to build another smithy to make them. But it's the lamp light that allows the plants to grow in winter in our greenhouse. Before the lamps, there was enough warmth but not enough light, so we couldn't get the roses to bloom and strawberries to ripen in the dark season. The heat comes from the hot water that courses through the greenhouse walls, same way as the older parts of the castle are heated. I suppose in the Red Keep you will need to take care of the heating too.

Prince Rhaegar was listening raptly, but she paused.

- Gods be good, I have never heard any of this about the late Lady Leona. And I am truly sorry for your loss – now I have a chance to give you my condolences in person.

- Thank you, Your Grace, - Lyanna sighed. She should have been concerned about spilling the secret her parents kept all these years, but instead of embarrassed she felt fiercely proud of her mother. – No wonder you did not hear about this, my family decided it was safer to keep these occupations of my lady mother in secret, to avoid annoying curiosity.

- On my honor as a prince, your family's secrets are safe with me – as well as your own, lady Lyanna. – His eyes burned her for a moment, bringing up a blush into her cheeks – but not a blush of shame, it was a surge of a different, uplifting mix of feelings. – But how did lady Leona come by this incredible skill with fire and metal?

- And glass and minerals too! I shouldn't be telling you, but since I've started, I am willing to carry on. My lady mother was a Hightower of Oldtown, an older sister of Ser Gerold Hightower of the Kingsguard, but that part you know. When she was twelve, she ran away from home, disguised as a boy. Why would she want to run away? Her parents loved and spoiled her, she told me, but from a child she loved spending time at workshops and smithies. Loved looking at how materials were transformed and how things were made to work. When she approached nearer to womanhood, her parents began to object to her walking about in stained and smoked dresses and to her lack of interest in more proper occupations for a noble family's daughter. Much as she loved them, she finally decided there was no other way for her but to run away. She came to the Citadel as an orphan boy. They questioned her and found that her mind was tenacious and lively and her hands able and deft. So they accepted her as a novice.

Her parents had been combing all of Seven Kingdoms for nearly three years, thinking she was kidnapped and most probably died a terrible death, as the kidnapper never asked for a ransom. She, for her part, attempted to leave the Citadel as little as possible, and that was not difficult: they apprenticed her to their smith, who was himself a maester. She couldn't dream of a position more fortunate. Luckily too, she was a girl of spare build, and grew more lean and muscular from her work, so it wasn't too hard for her to pass herself for a boy wearing baggy enough clothes, which the maesters, unlike her parents, didn't mind. Only once did she have to deal with an older acolyte who tried to molest her, thinking she was a boy, but she promised him to tell all about his advances and threats to the archmaester, and he thought it better to leave her alone. The only thing that worried her was her voice, which didn't break as boys' voices do. But before they ever started suspecting anything, the maester smith began sending her on errands to the port, to buy the rare ores and minerals from the ships that often brought such things to Oldtown.

One of these days her younger brother Gerold spotted an acolyte in the street, whose eyes were disturbingly like his sister's, even though they sat in a face rough and dark. Gerold was only five years old when Leona disappeared, so he wasn't certain. Still Ser Hugo Hightower set a spying post in a tavern in the street that led to the port, and eventually she was spotted and approached by Ser Hugo's squire. My mother told me that she was always grateful to her father for keeping the terms she set for returning home. She demanded her dowry to be given to her in coin, to set up a rare metal foundry in the metalworkers' street. And not to be hindered in anything that pertained to running that foundry. Her parents were grieved and shocked by these demands, but too glad she was found alive. They agreed, only on condition that she wear a mask and a false name in the foundry, and proper dress and gloves at home, especially when they had visitors.

Lyanna fell silent. The prince was astonished:

- This is one of the most extraordinary stories I have ever heard – or read about. But do I understand it right that your mother intended never to get married?

- You are right, Your Grace, that was her intention. She believed she wasn't made for a lady's life – nor did she receive the training customary for young ladies.

- How did she end up then as the lady of one of the seven great Houses – if you forgive my question? For even if she were educated as a lady, her father's house in Oldtown would not be the first place where a heir to Winterfell and the North would look for a bride – forgive me a thousand times again.

Lyanna couldn't help letting out a little laugh,

- True, he didn't come to my grandfather Hightower's house to look for a bride. He came to the metalworkers' quarter, to look for some good Valyrian steel.

That evening they talked a lot more about her and his family, before Rhaegar excused himself and returned to the castle of Harrenhal, where Lord Whent had no trouble housing even a bigger party than King Aerys's.

The next day she sat with her brothers, attired like a proper lady, watching Prince Rhaegar ride in the lists and win the tourney. When he rode up to where the Starks sat and crowned her with the wreath made of their own roses, she shuddered at the feeling of something ominous taking place – he should have ridden to the royal platform where Princess Elia was sitting, have placed the crown on her head.

In the evening, the Starks were invited to sup with the royal family. Lyanna would have given almost anything to avoid showing up in that hall and sitting down at table with Princess Elia. However, Brandon was adamant and told her that the excuse of being indisposed would sound ridiculous, or worse, suspicious, as the royal family had seen her hale and hearty just a few hours ago. Ned whispered in her ear that it would make things worse with the Princess if she declined to come. So with Benjen's help (she wouldn't abide a stupid gossiping maid) she brushed out and plaited her slate-dark hair and donned her dress of dull azure silk with black trimmings, to match the honor of the royal invitation. Then she draped a silver grey mantle over her shoulders, to avoid looking ostentatious. Her conflicted motives might be laughable if she voiced them – but the brightly polished waist-length mirror, forged by her mother of some lightweight alloy specially for traveling, asserted she looked quite impressive nonetheless.

It was an almost private event, compared to the tremendous feast of two nights before. Queen Rhaella with Prince Viserys didn't come to Harrenhal; Rhaegar and Elia's little daughter remained at King's Landing too, with her nurses and her grandmother, who was exceedingly fond of her – thus Elia answered to Brandon's polite inquiries. The king retired early, accompanied by the Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister, who looked all bitterness and poison despite his iron-reined reserve. Both of his twin children were absent – Lyanna learned that Jaime, newly raised to Kingsguard, was sent off to King's Landing right away, which prevented him from taking part in the tourney, and his sister never showed up this evening, without anyone even knowing the pretext. Brandon, after having shared that bit of information about Jaime, talked mostly to Lady Ashara Dayne, Princess Elia's companion. (If Jaime did take part in the tourney, Lyanna thought, perhaps Rhaegar would not be the winner.) Ben took Howland Reed to show him around the legendary castle, which Howland had never seen except from the outside. So she ended up in a close circle over spicy white dessert wine, cheeses and dried exotic fruit with Rhaegar and Princess Elia, while Ned hovered on the periphery of the conversation, listening intently but saying little. They were talking, naturally, about today's tourney. Rhaegar was rather quick to sense the great awkwardness on Lyanna's part toward Elia, because of the crown of roses. Indeed, it didn't take a brilliant mind like his to figure out she would be uncomfortable. He tried to explain:

- Lady Lyanna, Her Grace is glad that Winterfell roses were bestowed where they belonged by right. Truly, they should crown the heiress of the extraordinary lady whose presence made winter flowers bloom in the North. – Elia nodded in assent.

- This is so kind of Your Grace, I am most thankful, - was all that Lyanna managed to return. Her mind was busy puzzling out what stood behind this approval, and how much Rhaegar had to tell his wife of the Stark parents' story in order to obtain it. Ned picked up the thread that Lyanna seemed to be losing:

- As Brandon told His Grace King Aerys, our lord father sends his apologies to the royal House for not coming to the tourney. He is still grieving sorely for our dear mother, even though the year of mourning is already over.

- This is so very touching, - said Elia. – I would not imagine such a tender heart in a stern-looking man like Lord Rickard. – Her lively, penetrating dark eyes looked genuinely saddened. – Although all I ever saw of him was a distant glimpse at the celebration when Rhaenys was born – so I shouldn't be too quick to jump to conclusions.

- He might be stern with anyone but Mother – Lyanna broke in. – You know, he would sometimes call her "our Lightbringer," when he thought no one could hear.

Elia smiled, Ned frowned, and Rhaegar checked a gasp and went pale for a few moments.


	2. Rhaegar

He lifted the cup to his lips hastily and took a long draught of wine, to conceal his agitation at this nickname that Lyanna's mother turned out to have borne. Gods be good, it sealed his presentiments about this radiant young girl with the awe-inspiring seal of truth that burned him right through; it rhymed with the prophecy. Like a comet, she broke into his skies a mere day ago, and like a comet she boded awful and wonderful things to come. A warrior maid from the north, from the line of the First Men, bearing the emblem of the Old Gods on her shield. Having first appeared to him as a mystery knight, she commanded him to make out her meaning as he already found out her true face and name.

Lyanna Stark moved with the same forceful and purposeful precision in her silk gown at the royal supper as she did in her armor on the tourney grounds or in a man's clothes at the lakeside. The music of her movements entranced him even now, especially when he imagined her practicing her swordsmanship, half in secret, with her brothers, concealed by the granite walls of Winterfell – which he never saw, but longed to see now. He couldn't drive this picture from his mind ever since she told him yesterday about her father's reluctant approval of her training under their master-at-arms.

Elia was saying in the meantime:

- Rhaegar told me that Lord Rickard was very liberal with your lady mother's patronage of the most gifted metalworkers of the realm. I find this truly commendable – especially since we will enjoy the fruits of their invention now at King's Landing. Provided that she has left any good craftsmen here to the south of the Neck. – Rhaegar saw Lyanna chuckle over the joke with everyone else, although he wondered whether she felt more relief or disappointment at the way he altered Lady Leona' story for Elia. He noticed all of a sudden that the four of them were alone, not counting the royal family's old butler Renfry, who would stay to properly wait on them no matter how late they sat. Lady Ashara Dayne and Lyanna's brother Ser Brandon, the last other diners in the hall, had disappeared a while ago

- They were the most loving couple I have ever seen – Lyanna returned, as if to vindicate what she said about her parents in the sense that she actually meant it. – Their love for each other was what warmed us throughout our childhoods – it spilled over, I'm thinking now, like the light and warmth of a forge fire that brightens the whole smithy, even if it's meant only to soften the iron.

- You speak like a poet, Lady Lyanna, - Rhaegar rejoined.

- If it please Your Grace, poet is indeed the last thing I am, – she denied with a smile. Her quiet brother Eddard looked like he wanted to say something, perhaps to object to what she said before – Rhaegar wasn't sure to what: she might have said more than one thing that displeased him; yet he was apparently too shy to confront her in their presence. Perhaps Rhaegar wouldn't have paid even that much attention to the brother if he wasn't so curiously like and at the same time unlike his sister. He felt like teasing the man further:

- I suppose your lord father might not even suspect that it was in him, to shine with so much light, until he met Lady Leona.

Eddard's eyes went down to study the pattern on the tablecloth. He had the same lusterless dark hair and same firmly outlined lips as his sister, but he blushed differently – somehow she managed it better. Lyanna agreed:

- This may be true. She knew how to bring out the light in things that wouldn't shine on their own.

Rhaegar smiled at her and nodded knowingly, saying:

- Of course, "We light the way."

- But maybe it would please Your Grace to sing for us tonight? – she ventured.

Somewhat to his surprise, Elia seconded the request.

He wasn't at all inclined to be coy with them, so he ordered the butler to bring his harp from his chamber. It didn't take him long to decide what song to choose. He began an ancient ballad about Azor Ahai, which he had just finished translating from the Valyrian tongue. In fact, he sat down to translate it when Elia told him that she was with child again, only about two moons ago. He didn't dare to say he hoped for a son this time, so the ballad served as a way to give vent to his hopes and aspirations. He had cut out the stanza that praised Azor Ahai's firmness in not sparing his beloved wife for the sake of tempering the Lightbringer – he knew it would hurt Elia's feelings to hear such words from him even in a song; he would have gladly cut out that part of the story altogether, but the story didn't admit of it. However, he had added two stanzas at the end about the perilous river of time and prophecies that struggle to be fulfilled, and how they depend on people to take the right sort of action, for them to come true. Now these words took on a completely new meaning for him – somehow now it was clear that the right sort of action must have to do with Lady Lyanna.

When Rhaegar finished, there was a dreamy silence for a few long moments. Then Lyanna said:

- This is a marvelous song, Your Grace. Do you know, I heard this story first at the northern end of the Seven Kingdoms. Three years ago, when I was eleven, my father took me to visit the Wall. I didn't like Castle Black or its garrison one bit, but there was one man who made my stay more tolerable. For most of the fortnight we spent there, I sat a few hours every day with Castle Black's maester Aemon, an ancient man, frail and blind. He told me about the wonders of the East, and properties of herbs – he had volumes full of dried plant leaves and flowers delicately fixed to the pages, which he recognized by touch. But what I liked most was when he told about Old Valyria and the days of Aegon's conquest. Many of these stories I have known all my life, but he filled them with details that sounded impossible to invent. And some stories I heard from him for the first time, like the tale of Azor Ahai and the prophecy about the prince who shall be born amidst fire and salt to wield the Lightbringer again. I asked Maester Aemon how he came to know all this. He said he read very old books at the Citadel when he was still young and was only an acolyte forging his chain, and when his eyes could still see as well as anyone else's.

- My lady, would you like to know what house Maester Aemon comes from? – Rhaegar interjected.

- Yes, of course – I asked him that, but he said they put away their house names when they take on the maester's chain.

- Castle Black's maester is my great-uncle, Aemon Targaryen, the younger brother of my late grandfather Aegon the Fortunate.

Both of the Starks and Rhaegar's wife gave a gasp of astonishment. Elia said reproachfully:

- You didn't ever tell me.

- If it irks you, my dear, then I regret I didn't. But I don't recall we ever talked about Castle Black…

- But of course you know this is not about Castle Black!

- Princess Elia, Your Grace – Eddard suddenly interjected, - it may be different with the great houses of Dorne, but you see… north of Highgarden it is considered… not exactly a disgrace, but not something to be proud of either, when a younger son finds no better calling for himself than taking a maester's chain. After all, a maester is sworn to lifelong service. This is not to the liking of many proud fathers, when a son of theirs takes an oath to serve.

Rhaegar wasn't sure what to make of this. Is this young man trying to justify the royal house – but places it as no different from any other Westerosi family? Or is he presuming to criticize Rhaegar's silence about great-uncle Aemon as stemming from arrogance? From Elia's smile at him, however, Rhaegar understood that perhaps the young Stark was trying to defuse the tension between the two of them. Yes, it looked as if the awkwardness of being a witness to their beginning quarrel prompted the man to make this awkward comment. Elia said:

- Unfortunately, this is also true to the south of Highgarden. Yet my brother Ser Doran would be an exception. He is the heir to Sunspear, and he devotes so much time to reading books about the works and days of past rulers, and to keeping court with our lord father, that you would bet he is preparing for rule as for some strenuous, demanding service.

- To call rule a service - this is a truly remarkable thought! – Eddard exclaimed. – I think you have named what I have believed for a long time but could never put into words so clearly.

It was now Lyanna's turn to look at her brother with half amusement, half disapproval, as if he gave away some pet idea that they used to discuss privately.

- As for the prophecy of the prince who will be born to save men in the next long winter – Eddard continued – you can find it in the tale of the Long Night, if you listen carefully to the way Old Nan tells it.

- Surely if anyone can find it there, it's you, brother, - Lyanna laughed – never did Old Nan have such a devoted listener as you were when a little boy.

- Who is Old Nan? – Elia asked.

- She is the Winterfell nanny, - Lyanna answered promptly - and I'm telling you she is twice as ancient as Prince Rhaegar's great-uncle, only her eyes are still quite sharp. She was my lord father's nanny before she was mine and Brandon and Ned's, and she was his father's wet nurse before that. So she used to tell us many hair-raising stories about the War for the Dawn, the Others, and the children of the forest, and the First Men.

Rhaegar listened to the brother and sister interrupting each other, recalling the story of eight thousand years ago as told by their old nanny – who knows what mysterious blood that old witch came from, if she truly was as old as they said…

The night wore on, and it was time to break up their party – more pleasant than Rhaegar remembered having in a long time.

When they finally walked up the stairs, Elia climbed in front of him and he felt the scent of her Lysean perfume, cool and teasing, with a bitter note. She held up her rustling skirts, and her delicately shaped calves shone in their silk stockings in the light of the torch that the butler carried high up behind them. At the door of her chamber he pointed inside with his eyes, silently asking her if he could stay with her for the night, and she signaled approval with a motion of her eyelids. Her maid, who had been dutifullly awake, sewing some white undergarment by candlelight, curtsied to them and asked leave to retire. She knew that when the prince visited his wife for the night, he liked to undress her himself and comb out her hair.

Rhaegar unfastened the two dozen little hooks of Elia's bodice and lightly passed his palms over her back, now covered only with a translucent muslin undershift, feeling the grateful sigh of her skin released from the tight satin, the muscles of her spine settling into relaxation. He eased the unfastened dress down her hips, and she stepped free of the rustling mess of skirts on the floor.

- When are the new dresses ready? – he asked, warming her swelling breasts in the cups of his hands, gently massaging the dull ache of early pregnancy out of them. He was grateful that she had explained to him how this swelling, delightful to his touch and sight, felt burdensome to her, and how he could give her most pleasure and relief. Once she had explained that, he started worrying more about her clothes: it wouldn't do for her to suffer in overtight fashionable bodices that were not fitted to her changing size.

She undid his tight broad aurochs-hide belt in return, but before she had time to do anything else he stopped her –

- Not just yet, love, or we will have you go to bed with your hair all tangled and unbrushed. – He seated her at the mirror. It took him more than a few minutes to remove all the variously shaped hairpins, unbraid the elaborate lacing into which her lustrous, rich raven-dark hair was pleated by her artful chambermaid in the morning. He took the turtle comb first and carefully straightened and untangled her locks starting with the ends, getting more and more aroused as he drew his fingers through the thick silken mass of her hair, leaning down to bury his face in its warm musky smell. When he started rhythmically brushing it out with a hog-bristle brush, her face in the mirror melted into expressionless relaxation, eyes half-closed, her breaths coming deep and measured, as if in sleep.

Yet when he was done, she didn't make a sign to take her to bed but rose, turned away and went to the window. He sat down on the bed, waiting impatiently. She stared silently, endlessly through the diamond-shaped window panes, and Rhaegar realized it was snowing outside. He struggled with the urge to ask her what she was thinking about: Elia never liked to be asked this useless question, and if she answered, it was never to his satisfaction.

The snow was falling softly and whitely in the dark, muffling his inflamed and confused feelings.

His father was already at the table with Lord Whent when Rhaegar came down for breakfast the next morning. Aerys didn't sleep much these days, it seemed as if his mind was at a slow boil on some invisible fire. The sudden change in the weather unsettled him even more, and he was evidently ill at ease that he couldn't find someone human to blame for it.

- Did you see this snow, son? Lord Whent here is saying that we may have to cancel the melée and wrap up the whole affair. What nonsense, the tents get soaked and collapse! I'm sure it's going to melt by noon, is it spring, seven hells, or what?

Their host looked more agonized than he ever had since they arrived – although he had been very upset already from the start by the king's prohibition to invite any of the other tourney participants under the roof of Harrenhal. Even the lords – and ladies! – of the great houses had to accommodate themselves in tents in the field, due to Aerys's fervid suspiciousness: he wouldn't share the roof with anyone who wasn't sworn explicitly to his service and protection. A mercy he stopped short of driving out Lord Whent himself with all his household. (Yet the quarters in which the royal family was staying were guarded most jealously, and no meat or drink passed the threshold without being tasted, nor were any of the Harrenhal servants allowed to enter. Lord Whent too had to leave his dagger with the first line of the guards before he was allowed into the parlor where they were now taking their meal. Needless to say it didn't add to the fluency of his conversation).

- Your Grace, - he blurted out, - the snow is indeed likely to melt. This is why the field we prepared for the melée will be all slush and mud up to the knee. I fear there will be too many injuries – and no good show, to be sure.

- Nonsense! A good hack is always a good show, who cares if the fighters skip around less or more! What, do you put off a battle if it's raining, or if you have to fight even up to your waist in the water?!

Rhaegar shuddered at the thought – it was good he wasn't supposed to take part in the great seven-sided melée. He saw the futility of urging the reason of the cold and general inconvenience the guests have been suffering since the middle of the night. What would father care if he said the guests needed to pack up and reach some decent, dry and warm inn by night? Aerys's expectations of his subjects' devotion were always high, and now he would have less scruples than ever about requiring such a relatively trivial sign of loyalty as staying another night in drenched and collapsing tents. Of course the one person Rhaegar had in mind as having to shiver all night through was Lyanna (though he objected to himself that for her this probably wasn't really very cold).

- My lord of Harrenhal, - Aerys was cutting a long story short, Lord Whent being unable to raise an objection – please announce that the last day of your glorious tourney will proceed as planned. Oh – and add that any guest who shows disrespect to you and the king by leaving early will be duly punished.

The foolish spite of this last addition in particular made Rhaegar boil with rage. But he knew better than to argue even then. Father would not hurt him directly, but he would take out his irritation on other persons in unexpected ways. Rhaegar looked down and breathed heavily with anger, and buried his nails in the palms of his hands.

Rhaegar's reserve didn't avail for much in the way of alleviating his father's mood. Aerys rode out with three of the Kingsguard and with Rhaegar following most reluctantly in his rear, to see to it that all the guests remained on the grounds and every party was duly preparing for the melée. He intercepted a Westerling party who seemed to be packing up because their younger son, just knighted, was sniffling and coughing and had a fever. The king ordered for the youth to pull himself together like a knight that he was, and come out on the field. Mercifully, Lyanna was not to be glimpsed anywhere. In the early dusk that gathered over the great seven-sided mess, Rhaegar seemed to spot the young Westerling being carried off the field with a broken leg. This is the king's cure for the boy's cold, he thought bitterly.

It was a great relief to start riding out for home the next day. On the pretext of taking care of Elia, Rhaegar was determined to not come near his father for their entire ride, which, if the weather continued as wet and gloomy as now, might last whole five days instead of the usual three that it took to get from Gods Eye to King's Landing on dry roads. Rhaegar was falling back again and again to thinking of Lyanna, how she was looking now at the snow being trampled into mud under her grey mare's hooves, how steam was rising from the horse's hind, as she was riding north at this very moment, while he and Elia and their court were making their way south.

Gods, he wanted to be Lyanna – single and whole like a gem, and as firm. She had cutting edges, and she shone no matter what way you looked at her. He wanted to be her, riding into her pure and ancient and misty North, to her hoary-headed father, sick with grief but still himself. Feeling that he had lost his own father, Rhaegar envied the Stark children, whose father still remained his reasonable, same, reliable self for them.


End file.
